


the taste that your lips allow

by subtext-is-my-division (Quill_Angel)



Series: sonnetverse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Explicit Sexual Content, Irene and Mrs.Hudson ship them hard, Jealousy, M/M, Mentions of Substance Abuse, Possessive Behavior, Relationship Issues, Semi Public Sex, Switching, Uni!lock, and porn, bottomlock, co dependency, distance is hard, not much plot but many twisted and fluffy feelings, pesky OMCs, porn for porn's sake
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 19:52:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7328200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quill_Angel/pseuds/subtext-is-my-division
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"Who was he?" John asks brusquely. Sherlock turns to him, eyebrow furrowed. "Who?"</em>
  <br/>
  <em>"That idiot," John says, as if Sherlock is being deliberately obtuse.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>"Oh him? Just a friend, I suppose."</em>
  <br/>
  <em>"Well he doesn't look at you the way friends look at each other," John mutters.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>"Really?" Sherlock sounds amused. "I haven't noticed."</em>
</p><p> Graduation isn't the tough bit. The tough bit is what comes after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the taste that your lips allow

**Author's Note:**

> In which I avoid all my pending WIPS and write more Fluff n Porn.  
> Unbeta'ed cause I just wrote this in a jiff and went ahead and posted it. Sorry guys.

Of course, Sherlock graduates top of the class, full marks in Chemistry and Mathematics and actually managing to score decent in English. Sherlock informs John it’s only because John allowed him to crib his notes.

“Never thought you were one for modesty,” John tells him on the day they graduate.

“Well, maybe you should take it while it lasts,” Sherlock replies, grinning, and kisses him. John fancies he can taste Sherlock’s laughter on his tongue. He holds him tighter by his collar and pulls him against him, until Sherlock is giggling and scrabbling at his shirt front and telling them that they’ll be seen.

“Good,” John mumbles against his mouth. “It’s not like they didn’t see you drag me out of the hall at the Christmas Formal. I wonder what they thought you were taking me away for. Physics tuition, perhaps?”

Sherlock pushes John harder against the tree they’re currently snogging in front of. “Shut up,” he says, but he’s laughing, and he feels lovely against John, warm and happy and absolutely, breath takingly gorgeous.

“We’ll have to get back, our parents will be looking for us.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock agrees, and kisses down his jaw. “Undoubtedly.”

John groans, half out of frustration and half because Sherlock is snaking a hand down his trousers.

They’ll be here for a while, then.

***

John’s mother had invited Sherlock for dinner the following day, to celebrate their graduation. She’s always extending invitations to him. Once she even took him to the morgue her brother works at and it was a delightful day.

In any case, Sherlock adores Mrs. Watson. He never tells her so, and he never tells John, but he has a feeling they both know very well. She always hugs him exceedingly tight, and Sherlock feels as though his ribs will break. They don’t, though. But he does feel something warm and fond bloom in his stomach when she embraces him. Even Harry is amusing in her own way. He’s never had a younger sibling before, so the dynamic is interesting. It’ll be a few years before Harry grows up and becomes an adolescent, and perhaps she won’t be as clever as before. Sherlock reminds himself to tell her about romance and the idiots she’ll meet who won’t be a bit like John so it would be better if she just stayed clear of them completely. John later brings to his attention that Harry might end up enjoying the company of women more, and this throws Sherlock for a long time. Women are a completely different species. They confuse him. They’re wildly more complex, both physiologically and mentally. He’ll have to consult Irene on the matter.

After desert they sneak into John’s bedroom and they climb into bed, Sherlock pulling John on top of them. He wraps his legs around him and his fingers grip his shoulders, and they fuck but they have to be quiet lest anyone hear- and it’s so much better this way. Sherlock has to bite his lip to prevent himself from moaning and John pants hard while he thrusts his hips into Sherlock, and it’s even more intimate than the _oh fuck_ s and _ohgod_ s he usually utters.

Sherlock laces their fingers together and John kisses him messily when he comes. He rolls off Sherlock, sweaty and breathing hard and Sherlock doesn’t know how to explain the feeling that’s expanding his chest until it feels like they’re isn’t any space left in the cavity any more.

Maybe John knows how feels. Maybe John can tell when Sherlock is suddenly becoming inarticulate, or hideously sentimental. Maybe that’s why John pulls him closer and places a kiss on his temple.

“What is it?” he asks.

Sherlock is silent for a long moment, because he always hates this; sounding needy and desperate, unable to function properly.

“I don’t want to go to Oxford,” he says after a while. “I want to stay. In London. With you.”

John sighs, and turns on his side so he can face Sherlock. It’s dark but he can make out John’s face clearly; his messy hair, his bright blue eyes. Currently they’re locked on him, concerned and a little worried. “You can’t say that. I thought you wanted to study there…you spoke so much about the faculty, and the opportunities, and you’re the best in school, Sherlock, you should go to a place that’s worthy of you.”

‘But…we won’t be together,” Sherlock whispers. He feels braver to say it here, where it’s dark and it feels like a secret he’s letting into the air. All of his insecurities, his fears, laid bare for John to see.

“Sherlock, we won’t be that far apart, I swear. I can come to see you weekends, and we’ll go home together on leave, we’ll figure something out,” he twists their fingers together. “I promise.”

“You don’t understand,” Sherlock urges. “With all those new people you’ll meet…undoubtedly they’ll be friendlier and nicer, and they’ll share your insipid taste in literature and music—“

“Alright, firstly, Adele isn’t _insipid—“_

“Yes she is, and so is _Coldplay—“_

“And secondly, who cares about those people? And I might make new friends, Sherlock, so will you—“ Sherlock opens his mouth to protest but John hammers on, “but you’re my best friend. Do I think you’re going to meet cool, snooty, pretentious people up at Oxford? Oh, I’m sure. Do I think you’re going to replace me with them? Absolutely not.Alright, maybe I’m a little nervous, but I trust you, and what’s more, I trust what we have. Is that a good enough answer for you?”

Sherlock stares at him for a moment. “Well, I never asked a _question,_ ” he scoffs, even though what he means to say is _I love you, and I trust what we have too, but you’re just so brilliant and lovely that I’m a little afraid to lose you, that’s all._

But John, amazing, spectacular John, understands him perfectly and wraps his arms around him, laughing. “You arse,” he hisses, biting the curve of his ear.

“ _Your_ arse,” Sherlock corrects, snuffling into his neck.

“My arse? Yes, it’s quite lovely, thank you.”

“Idiot,” Sherlock calls him, but even John knows by now that’s it’s never been anything short of a compliment.

***

John gets accepted into UCL, which Sherlock isn’t the least bit surprised by. John is extremely clever and they’d be lucky to have John. John, however, is very shocked. Sherlock has to spend an excruciating hour explaining to a hyperventilating John that’s it quite real, it’s not a dream, and he’ll have to confirm his application soon so he might as well get up from the sofa. So he does, and Sherlock makes him a cup of tea, but he forgets that John doesn’t like sugar so he has to make a cup all over again. John watches him and laughs all the way through.

Sherlock locks the moment into a wooden box in his mind palace, ties it with a satin ring.

***

 

 

The acceptance letter from Oxford comes soon after, and Sherlock, although unsurprised, keeps staring at the letter for a long time, trying to remember how he stumbled through life without John.

His father pulls out a chair at the dining table where Sherlock is seated, a cut crystal tumbler of whiskey in his hand.

“Can I see?” he asks.

Sherlock huffs and hands him the letter. “You already know what it is.”

“Very true,” he unfolds the crisp, clean paper and reads it, a smile stretching his mouth. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to read it for myself.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and reaches for the whiskey but his father pulls it out of his reach, grinning. “Not so early in the morning,” he admonishes.

“It’s noon.”

“Maybe in the evening. We do need to celebrate, after all.” He folds the paper and carefully puts it back in his envelope. “I know John Watson has been accepted into UCL. You must extend our heartiest congratulations.”

Sherlock raises his brows. “Why don’t you and Mother tell him yourself?”

“You seem to be under the impression we will murder him as soon as he sets foot in this house,” his father tells him knowingly, eyes glinting.

“Wouldn’t you?”

His father shrugs. “It’s no secret your mother and I are disapproving of him. But clearly you have no intention of bowing to the higher wisdom of your parents,” he takes a sip of his whiskey, looks at Sherlock from above his thick spectacles. “And you’re eighteen. Old enough to make your own decisions.”

“Sixteen was old enough too, father,” Sherlock doesn’t even try to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He’s had this argument with parents many, many times before. His mother would start sobbing, accusing him of being a terrible son and Father would glare at him in glacial fury.

“Not quite.” He sighs, leaning back in his chair, looking at his tumbler quite seriously. “But of course we’ve discussed this several times.”

“No argument from me there,” Sherlock mutters.

His father laughs, and it’s odd to hear it. It isn’t that he doesn’t express his amusement at things he finds funny, only that it’s usually sarcastic or bitter, or made to feel Sherlock feel small. Or at least that’s what he’s always presumed.

“We’re very proud of you, Sherlock,” he finally says. “But we aren’t surprised that you made it. You’ve always been very bright.”

“I’m a genius,” Sherlock scoffs.

“Quite right.” Then his father reaches forward and does something he does only very rarely, and not in years, recently; he ruffles his hair. Sherlock freezes, unsure of what to do. “We don’t tell you enough,” his father says, warm hand resting on top of his head. Neither of his parents have ever been open with physical affection; the last time they’d embraced him was when he’d come back from London after he’d been shot. His father’s touch feels…comforting. It’s odd and Sherlock hates himself a little for it.

He pats it once more and then gets up. He clears his throat. “Perhaps we could take you and John for dinner tonight?” He says it airily, as if it’s of no consequence, but Sherlock knows his father well.

“Don’t be absurd,” he laughs.

“Just thought I’d suggest it,” he replies, and he makes a show of sounding offended, but it’s clear he’s quite relieved.

***

“Oxford, huh?” Irene sounds impressed. She exhales the smoke almost artfully. “That sounds posh. And a good place for you.” She turns on her side so she’s facing him where they’re laying down on the ground. “And John?”

“John’s off to UCL,” Sherlock answers, breathing in the cigarette. It’s just one. Undoubtedly John is going to have a fit over it. He feels a sudden rush of fondness.

“That will be hard for the both of you, now won’t it?”

Sherlock nods. “Immensely.”

She leans forward and kisses him on his cheek. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about him. I’ll make lots of visits. Make sure he’s doing well. You know.” She winks.

“You’re a menace,” Sherlock tells her.

“Oh, undoubtedly,” she agrees. “A menace who’s off to London herself, so perhaps I’ll see you there.”

“And what, pray, are you going to do in London?”

Irene smiles, and it’s like the edge of a knife. Sherlock swallows, and he reminds himself again, to never forget that Irene is practically as clever as he is. Her eyes glint wickedly.

“I’d tell you,” she whispers. “But I’d have to kill you.”

***

“Lovely to see you carrying on the family tradition,” Mycroft says, smug and self-satisfied as ever. Sherlock can see him sitting at his mahogany desk, smirking into the receiver.

“John’s going to UCL,” Sherlock complains instead, and he hates how he sounds petulant and stupid.

“A bit of time away from each other will do you good,” Mycroft tells him. “You two are becoming frighteningly co dependent.”

“Yes, like you and your beloved truffle cake.”

“And I can keep an eye on John in London. Not that I would have a problem anywhere else, of course. But he’ll be quite safe. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Keep your nose out of his business,” Sherlock says, but he really means _thank you._ He hopes Mycroft understands.

***

In the end, John is the one who drags him out to celebrate.

“A pub?” Sherlock says scornfully. “Why?”

“We’ll get pissed and I’ll suck you off in the loo,” John promises, lacing their fingers together while they walk.

“You can suck me off anywhere you like,” Sherlock answers primly. “You’ll realize I’m not fussy.”

John looks up at him, lips pulled up in a crooked smile. “Oh, I know.”

Sherlock licks his lips. “Don’t cross the road looking at me like that, we’ll die.” John laughs, and it’s a lovely, glorious sound.

The pub is crowded, loud, and really the kind of place Sherlock would rather avoid, but John seems to enjoy himself at places like this. Plus, he gets to watch John drink, and when John drinks, he becomes lovely and flushed and loose lipped and Sherlock adores him like that.

“I love this pub,” John tells him, as they make their way straight to the counter, where there are few empty stools. There’s a television mounted on the wall in front of them, some sort of rugby game is on.

“So do I,” Sherlock answers. “Mycroft brought us here on your seventeenth birthday, do you remember?”

“As if I could ever forget,” John grimaces. “Your brother buying me drinks,” he makes a face.  “Wasn’t Greg here, too?”

“Mmm hmm,” Sherlock nods.

The barman interrupts them, asking them what they want. His eyes linger a little longer on John that considered usual or even polite, and Sherlock has a strong urge to claw his eyes out. Or tell him that his girlfriend would be disapproving of his wandering gaze. If she ever got any time away from her cat. Sherlock even tries to find something incriminating about him, but he comes off blank. Unless John would be put off by mild asthama.

“What can I get you boys?” he asks. Or he asks John. He’s asking John.  Unacceptable.

“I’ll have a vodka, neat,” John answers, grinning. His grin is far too nice. John is naturally flirtatious at all times, and while Sherlock enjoys being on the receiving end of John’s charm, he doesn’t see why this upstart barman should have any of it. He’s six years older than them, for Christ’s sake. Practically ancient.

“In a moment,” he replies, inclining his head. His eyes are far too green. “Haven’t I seen you here before?”

John raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, maybe. Er…I haven’t been here in ages, though.”  
“Feels like I’ve seen you,” he begins wiping a glass and Sherlock considers smashing it on his head. “With a girl, maybe?”

John laughs. “No, no girl.”

“Handsome young boy like you, no girlfriend?” the barman looks shocked.

John blushes. Actually blushes. Is he even aware that Sherlock is sitting right next to him? Probably not.

“I’ll have a bottle of lager, thanks,” Sherlock says loudly. The barman shifts his gaze to him, surprised, as if he hadn’t even noticed him.

His cheeks colour a bit, and he smiles, bashful. “Of course, of course. Coming right up.”

After he disappears, Sherlock turns to John, cocking his head and doing his best imitation of Mycroft’s sarcastic smile. It runs in the family, but it does well to practice some times. “Enjoyingyourself?” he asks.

“Sorry, what?” John looks genuinely surprised.

“Your ceaseless _flirting,”_ Sherlock clarifies hotly. “Certainly you can’t have missed that idiot trying to chat you up.”

John grins, and it’s so adorable and beautiful that Sherlock thaws a little. “He was chatting me up? Really? You think so?”

“You needn’t be so surprised,” Sherlock snorts. “Half this town wants to shag you.”

“Sherlock,” John says quietly, and his hand reaches for Sherlock’s thigh. His palm is warm against the denim, he feels it right down to his skin. “Are you jealous?”

“No.”

“Because if you like, you can kiss me right here, just so everyone knows I’m taken.”

John is looking at him, blue eyes bright and his hair falling roughly across his forehead. He looks thoughtful, and a little smug, a smirk playing on the corner of his mouth.  Sherlock wants to do much more than kiss him. Sherlock wants to fuck him, wants to snog him till he’s gasping.

Before he can answer, however, the Idiot Barman returns with their drinks and gives John an over-the-top grin that Sherlock wishes he could tear off. With his teeth.

John can probably feel his fury, because he coughs discreetly into his fist, presumably to tell Sherlock he should calm down.

He sips his lager angrily.

“You know,” John says slowly, running a finger around the rim of the glass. “I love it when you get jealous.”

Sherlock can’t help but huff out a laugh at that. “Really.”

“Really,” John assures him.

“I can see the appeal. I recall the Elizabeth Incident with aching clarity.”

“She was all over you,” John defends hotly. “She asked you out _right in front of me._ Like I was a piece of furniture.”

“But you got to have me after that, John,” Sherlock licks some beer off his lips. John watches the motion raptly. “You had me right over my desk.”

Sherlock notices the dilation of his pupils, the flush creeping up his neck. He downs some more of his lager. “And you know, I’d like to have you right now.”

John swallows, and Sherlock notes the bob of his Adam’s apple with smug satisfaction. “Have me?” John chokes. “Here?”

Sherlock shrugs, raises the bottle to his lips and takes a delicate sip. “I can’t quite put my finger on it, John, but the idea of someone else assuming you’re free to be propositioned…” he sucks some beer off his thumb. “Makes me want to claim you. Does that make sense?”

“Uh. Yeah. Okay.” John drinks the last of his vodka. He’s visibly flushed, the redness creeping around his ears, his neck, his cheeks.

“And there’s one fantasy we haven’t quite indulged yet,” Sherlock informs him, his gaze dropping to John’s mouth. He’s licking his lips again.

“Which is?”

Sherlock smiles, before leaning forward so his lips brush John’s ear. “I want to fuck you outside, John.” he whispers against the shell of his ear. He nips it a little, and John sucks in a little shocked breath. “I want to push you against the wall and take you right there, where anyone can see us, see me fucking you there so that they know you’re taken.”

They don’t do it often, like this, Sherlock prefers it the other way around. But there’s something about John this way; flushed and squirming in his seat, hard in his pants and rendered incapable of speech, that makes Sherlock want to bend him over the nearest surface and bury himself deep inside of him.

He pulls away, grinning, and John’s mouth is parted, his eyes wide. Sherlock reaches into his pocket for his wallet and leaves money on the table. “Come, John,” he says, sliding off his seat.

***

They make it through the pub and out of it, and John wonders if they can tell that he’s so fucking hard in his jeans that he feels like he’s going to burst. He feels filthy, cheeks heated and blood pounding his ears, and fuck, he wants Sherlock so bad. He doesn’t mind Sherlock being on top- likes it quite a lot, actually; he’s got such lovely, long fingers and when they do it this way, he takes ages slowly fingering John open and it’s heaven.

But now, Sherlock doesn’t look like’s going to take his time. He clasps John hand in his own, hard, and when he turns around to smirk at John, there’s a hungry look in his eyes that makes John want to get down on his knees and swallow him down.

Instead, Sherlock takes them to the back of the building. It’s not completely hidden, but there are a few trees that hide half of it from sight, and it’s dark. But if someone knew what they were looking for they’d probably see them.

“I’m going to be quick,” he says hoarsely, as he pushes John against the wall, face first. His longer frame bends over him, his fingers digging painfully into his hips. He places a kiss underneath John’s ear, tender and sweet.

The brick work is a little damp, and there’s probably going to be grit in his hair by the time Sherlock is done with him, but John doesn’t care.

“Do you have lube?” John asks.

“Shhh,” Sherlock shushes him. “I’ll take care of it.”

Sherlock’s fingers snake around him and reach for his zipper, and he pulls his jeans and pants down. The chilly air raises goosebumps on his skin. Sherlock’s palm, surprisingly warm, skims his arse slowly, squeezing him possessively as he does. John’s panting hard, his cock stiff and wet in front of him, leaking pre come copiously.

“Sherlock, please,” he pleads.

“Quiet,” Sherlock murmurs, and then he can hear the rip of plastic, and a few seconds later Sherlock’s finger breaches him, slick and cold, and he groans softly.

“Fuck, John,” Sherlock hisses. “So tight. Relax.”

“You’re fucking me in a dark alleyway,” John defends himself. Sherlock chuckles softly in his ear, finger slowly working him open.

“Hardly an alleyway, John.” He adds another finger. John pushes back against his hand, moaning, throwing his head back against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“While you’re making such lovely sounds, John,” he whispers, in a dark, possessive tone that makes John’s toes curl, “You have to be quiet. I don’t actually want anyone to see you like this. Only I get to see you like this.”

And he has three fingers inside of him now, skilled, long, slender fingers that just barely brush his prostate. John shudders against him, biting his lip, hard. Sherlock’s fingers move in and out of him, unhurried and languorous, fucking him open like they have all the time in the world. John reaches for his cock but Sherlock grabs his wrists and pins them against the wall with a soft growl.

“Don’t touch yourself,” he orders, and John swallows, fucks himself on Sherlock’s fingers. He’s going to come like this, he thinks. Sherlock’s lovely fingers. God.

“Christ, Sherlock, please,” he rasps again, and Sherlock slides his fingers out. He whines at the lost of contact, actually whines, and Sherlock mouths his neck, his lips soft and wet.

“Please,” he begs. He hears Sherlock’s own zip being pulled down, the whish of his jeans, and then he’s snaking an arm around his middle, pushing John against him. His cock brushes against his entrance, hot and hard.

“Alright?” Sherlock asks, his voice shaking. “Are you alright?” John braces his forearms against the wall and pushes back against him in response. They could use condoms, but they’ve both been tested, and Christ, it just feels better this way.

Sherlock slides in then, and John almost keens at the sensation. Sherlock does it slowly, careful not to hurt him, but there’s still an initial burn as his muscles work to let Sherlock in. His breath in John’s ear is quick and strained, as if he’s barely holding himself back from fucking John raw.

“Oh God,” he groans, “Oh god. John.”

“That’s it,” John encourages him. “Deeper. Fuck, Sherlock, go deeper.”

He feels full, stretched wide around Sherlock’s cock, and he reaches behind to push Sherlock harder against him. Sherlock palm is against the wall for leverage.

“I’m going to fuck you properly now,” he says, and rolls his hips against John’s arse. He begins to move, slow, unhurried thrusts before he picks up a pace.

“Fuck,” John curses, nails digging into the brick. “Fuck. So good. Fuck, Sherlock.”

Sherlock grunts, pistons his hips into John, his arm tight around his abdomen. His thrusts are shallow but rough, and John feels his knees grow shaky under his movements. The stretch is just on the border of _too much,_ but it feels so good, and the knowledge that Sherlock is slowly growing unraveled with each push, that it’s impossible that he could be thinking about anything else except pounding into John’s hole- that brilliant mind reduced to this- rut, fuck- nearly undoes John.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, like that, fuck, Sherlock. Fuck, you feel so good.”

He can feel Sherlock preening behind him, large hands spread wide against his stomach, and his thrusts become haphazard and loose their rhythm.

“Going to come,” he rasps, and his hand slips down to grip John’s cock. John’s knees nearly give way in response to the touch, and then Sherlock is jerking him off messily and quickly, and he has to bite his lips to prevent himself from screaming out in pleasure.

“Fuck, you’re so _tight,”_ Sherlock says. “So tight. Mine. You’re mine. Say you’re mine, John.”

“Yours,” John agrees. “Always been yours. Fuck me harder. God, yeah. You’re gonna make me come.”

“Good,” Sherlock whispers. And then “ _Shit.”_ John feels him filling him up, warm and wet. Sherlock’s hand moves up and down his shaft, and then John spills right into his skin, gasping and shaking. Sherlock is still trembling behind him, hips moving lazily as he fucks out the last of his orgasm.

He pulls out of John after a few moments, and John can feel Sherlock’s come slip out of him, slick and messy. It feels decadent, pornographic. Amazing, really.

Sherlock gently turns him around and pulls up his pants, buttons him up. He lifts a hand and carefully arranges John’s hair into some semblance of decency.

His own jeans are zipped up, clothes perfectly in place.

“Good?” he asks, smirking.

“Excellent,” John replies, and pulls him down for a kiss.

Sherlock makes a soft, approving noise. “If I’d known you fuck like that when you’re jealous,” John says against his mouth. “I should do it more often. Chat up some more blokes.”

“You don’t want me on a murder charge, John,” Sherlock reminds him, sucking on his bottom lip. “You’re not clever enough to get me off it.”

“You’re such a charmer,” John jokes, and Sherlock laughs against him.

***

 


End file.
